LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class    H99          ft 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

AND  OTHER 
OUT-OF-DOOR  STUDIES 


OLD 

FASHIONED 
FLOWERS 


AND  OTHER 

OUT-OF-DOOR 

STUDIES 

BY 

MAURICE 

MAETERLINCK 

TRANSLATED   BY 

ALEXANDER   TEIXEIRA 

DE   MATTOS 
ILLUSTRATED 


( 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
COPYRIGHT,   1905,  BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHED   OCTOBER,    1905 


COMPOSITION  AND  ELECTROTYPE  PLATES  BY 
D.  B.  UPDIKE,  THE  MERRYMOUNT  PRESS,  BOSTON 


\ 
226627 


CONTENTS 

OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS  3 

NEWS  OF  SPRING  43 

FIELD  FLOWERS  65 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS  85 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"I  HAVE  SEEN  THEM  ...  IN  THE  GARDEN 

OF  AN  OLD  SAGE"  Frontispiece 

"THE  HOLLYHOCK  .  .  .  FLAUNTS  HER  COCK- 
ADES" Facing  page  2O 

"A  CLUSTER  OF  CYPRESSES,  WITH  ITS  PURE 

OUTLINE"  50 

"THAT  SORT  OF  CRY  AND  CREST  OF  LIGHT 

AND  JOY"  70 

"HERE  IS  THE  SAD  COLUMBINE"  74 

THE  CHRYSANTHEMUMS  92 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 


OLD-FASHIONED 
FLOWERS 

THIS  morning,  when  I  went  to  look  at 
my  flowers,  surrounded  by  their  white 
fence,  which  protefts  them  against  the 
good  cattle  grazing  in  the  field  beyond, 
I  saw  again  in  my  mind  all  that  blossom  s 
in  the  woods,  the  fields,  the  gardens, 
the  orangeries  and  the  green-houses, 
and  I  thought  of  all  that  we  owe  to  the 
world  of  marvels  which  the  bees  visit. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

Can  we  conceive  what  humanity  would 
be  if  it  did  not  know  the  flowers  ?  If 
these  did  not  exist,  if  they  had  all  been 
hidden  from  our  gaze,  as  are  probably 
a  thousand  no  less  fairy  sights  that  are 
all  around  us,  but  invisible  to  our  eyes, 
would  our  character,  our  faculties,  our 
sense  of  the  beautiful,  our  aptitude 
for  happiness,  be  quite  the  same?  We 
should,  it  is  true,  in  nature  have  other 
splendid  manifestations  of  luxury,  ex- 
uberance and  grace ;  other  dazzling  ef- 
forts of  the  superfluous  forces:  the  sun, 
the  stars,  the  varied  lights  of  the  moon, 
the  azure  and  the  ocean,  the  dawns  and 
twilights,  the  mountain,  the  plain,  the 
forest  and  the  rivers,  the  light  and  the 
trees,  and  lastly,  nearer  to  us,  birds, 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

precious  stones  and  woman.  These  are 
the  ornaments  of  our  planet.  Yet  but 
for  the  last  three,  which  belong  to  the 
same  smile  of  nature,  how  grave,  aus- 
tere, almost  sad,  would  be  the  educa- 
tion of  our  eye  without  the  softness 
which  the  flowers  give !  Suppose  for  a 
moment  that  our  globe  knew  them  not : 
a  great  region,  the  most  enchanted  in 
the  joys  of  our  psychology,  would  be 
destroyed,  or  rather  would  not  be  dis- 
covered. All  of  a  delightful  sense  would 
sleep  for  ever  at  the  bottom  of  our 
harder  and  more  desert  hearts  and  in 
our  imagination  stripped  of  worshipful 
images.  The  infinite  world  of  colours 
and  shades  would  have  been  but  incom- 
pletely revealed  to  us  by  a  few  rents  in 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

the  sky.  The  miraculous  harmonies  of 
light  at  play,  ceaselessly  inventing  new 
gaieties,  revelling  in  itself,  would  be 
unknown  to  us;  for  the  flowers  first 
broke  up  the  prism  and  made  the  most 
subtle  portion  of  our  sight.  And  the 
magic  garden  of  perfumes — who  would 
have  opened  its  gate  to  us?  A  few 
grasses,  a  few  gums,  a  few  fruits,  the 
breath  of  the  dawn,  the  smell  of  the 
night  and  the  sea,  would  have  told  us 
that  beyond  our  eyes  and  ears  there 
existed  a  shut  paradise  where  the  air 
which  we  breathe  changes  into  delights 
for  which  we  could  have  found  no  name. 
Consider  also  all  that  the  voice  of  hu- 
man happiness  would  lack !  One  of  the 
/  blessed  heights  of  our  soul  would  be  al- 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

most  dumb, if  the  flowers  had  not,  since 
centuries,  fed  with  their  beauty  the  lan- 
guage which  we  speak  and  the  thoughts 
that  endeavour  to  crystallize  the  most 
precious  hours  of  life.(The  whole  voca- 
bulary, all  the  impressions  of  love,  are 
impregnate  with  their  breath,  nourished 
with  their  smile.  When  we  love,  all  the 
flowers  that  we  have  seen  and  smelt 
seem  to  hasten  within  us  to  people  with 
their  known  charms  the  consciousness 
of  a  sentiment  whose  happiness,  but  for 
them,  would  have  no  more  form  than 
the  horizons  of  the  sea  or  sky.  They 
have  accumulated  within  us,  since  our 
childhood,  and  even  before  it,  in  the 
soul  of  our  fathers,  an  immense  trea- 
sure, the  nearest  to  our  joys,  upon 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 
which  we  draw  each  time  that  we  wish 
to  make  more  real  the  clement  minutes 
of  our  life.  They  have  created  and 
spread  in  our  world  of  sentiment  the 
fragrant  atmosphere  in  which  love  de- 
lights. 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

II 

THAT  is  why  I  love  above  all  the  sim- 
plest, the  commonest,  the  oldest  and 
the  most  antiquated ;  those  which  have 
a  long  human  past  behind  them,  a 
large  array  of  kind  and  consoling  ac- 
tions ;  those  which  have  lived  with  us 
for  hundreds  of  years  and  which  form 
part  of  ourselves,  since  they  refle6t 
something  of  their  grace  and  their  joy 
of  life  in  the  soul  of  our  ancestors. 

But  where  do  they  hide  themselves? 
They  are  becoming  rarer  than  those 
which  we  call  rare  flowers  to-day. 
Their  life  is  secret  and  precarious.  It 
seems  as  though  we  were  on  the  point 
of  losing  them,  and  perhaps  there  are 

c  9  n 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

some  which,  discouraged  at  last,  have 
lately  disappeared,  of  which  the  seeds 
have  died  under  the  ruins,  which  will 
no  more  know  the  dew  of  the  gardens 
and  which  we  shall  find  only  in  very  old 
books,  amid  the  bright  grass  of  the  Illu- 
minators or  along  the  yellow  flower- 
beds of  the  Primitives. 

They  are  driven  from  the  borders  and 
the  proud  baskets  by  arrogant  stran- 
gers from  Peru,  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
China,  Japan.  They  have  two  pitiless 
enemies  in  particular.  The  first  of  these 
is  the  encumbering  and  prolific  Bego- 
nia Tuberosa,  that  swarms  in  the  beds 
like  a  tribe  of  turbulent  fighting-cocks, 
with  innumerous  combs.  It  is  pretty, 
but  insolent  and  a  little  artificial;  and, 

C  i°n 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

whatever  the  silence  and  meditation  of 
the  hour,  under  the  sun  and  under  the 
moon,  in  the  intoxication  of  the  day  and 
the  solemn  peace  of  the  night,  it  sounds 
its  clarion  cry  and  celebrates  its  vic- 
tory, monotonous,  shrill  and  scentless. 
The  other  is  the  Double  Geranium,  not 
quite  so  indiscreet,  but  indefatigable 
also  and  extraordinarily  courageous.  It 
would  appear  desirable  were  it  less  lav- 
ished. These  two, — with  the  help  of  a 
few  more  cunning  strangers  and  of  the 
plants  with  coloured  leaves  that  close  up 
those  turgid  mosaics  which  at  present 
debase  the  beautiful  lines  of  most  of 
our  lawns, — these  two  have  gradually 
ousted  their  native  sisters  from  the  spots 
which  these  had  so  long  brightened  with 

C  11  3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

their  familiar  smiles.  They  no  longer 
have  the  right  to  receive  the  guest  with 
artless  little  cries  of  welcome  at  the 
gilded  gates  of  the  mansion.  They  are 
forbidden  to  prattle  near  the  steps,  to 
twitter  in  the  marble  vases,  to  hum  their 
tune  beside  the  lakes,  to  lisp  their  dialeft 
along  the  borders.  A  few  of  them  have 
been  relegated  to  the  kitchen-garden, 
in  the  neglefted  and,  for  that  matter, 
delightful  corner  occupied  by  the  me- 
dicinal or  merely  aromatic  plants,  the 
Sage,  the  Tarragon,  the  Fennel  and  the 
Thyme, — old  servants,  too,  dismissed  . 
and  nourished  through  a  sort  of  pity  or 
mechanical  tradition.  Others  have  ta- 
ken refuge  by  the  stables,  near  the  low 
door  of  the  kitchen  or  the  cellar,  where 

n  i*  3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

they  crowd  humbly  like  importunate 
beggars,  hiding  their  bright  dresses 
among  the  weeds  and  holding  their 
frightened  perfumes  as  best  they  may, 
so  as  not  to  attra6t  attention. 

But,  even  there,  the  Pelargonium, 
red  with  indignation,  and  the  Begonia, 
crimson  with  rage,  came  to  surprise 
and  hustle  the  unoffending  little  band ; 
and  they  fled  to  the  farms,  the  cemete- 
ries, the  little  gardens  of  the  reftories, 
the  old  maid's  houses  and  the  country 
convents.  And  now  hardly  anywhere, 
save  in  the  oblivion  of  the  oldest  vil- 
lages, around  tottering  dwellings,  far 
from  the  railways  and  the  nursery- 
gardener's  overbearing  hot-houses,  do 
we  find  them  again  with  their  natural 

n  is] 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

smile;  not  wearing  a  driven,  panting 
and  hunted  look,  but  peaceful,  calm, 
restful,  plentiful,  careless  and  at  home. 
And,  even  as  in  former  times,  in  the 
coaching-days,  from  the  top  of  the 
stone  wall  that  surrounds  the  house, 
through  the  rails  of  the  white  fence,  or 
from  the  sill  of  the  windows  enlivened 
by  a  caged  bird,  on  the  motionless  road 
where  none  passes,  save  the  eternal 
forces  of  life,  they  see  spring  come  and 
autumn,  the  rain  and  the  sun,  the  but- 
terflies and  the  bees, the  silence  and  the 
night  followed  by  the  light  of  the  moon . 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

m 

BRAVE  old  flowers!  Wall-flowers, 
Gillyflowers,  Stocks!  For,  even  as  the 
field-flowers,  from  which  a  trifle,  a  ray 
of  beauty,  a  drop  of  perfume,  divides 
them,  they  have  charming  names,  the 
softest  in  the  language;  and  each  of 
them,  like  tiny,  artless  ex-votos,  or  like 
medals  bestowed  by  the  gratitude  of 
men,  proudly  bears  three  or  four.  You 
Stocks,  who  sing  among  the  ruined 
walls  and  cover  with  light  the  grieving 
stones ;  you  Garden  Primroses,  Primu- 
las or  Cowslips,  Hyacinths,  Crocuses, 
Crown  Imperials,  Scented  Violets,  Li- 
lies of  the  Valley,  Forget-me-nots, 
Daisies  and  Periwinkles,  Poet's  Nar- 
C  15  ] 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

cissuses,  Pheasant  VEyes,Bear's-Ears, 
Alyssums,  Saxifrage,  Anemones — it  is 
through  you  that  the  months  that  come 
before  the  leaf-time — February , March, 
April — translate  into  smiles  which  men 
can  understand  the  first  news  and  the 
first  mysterious  kisses  of  the  sun !  You 
are  frail  and  chilly  and  yet  as  bold-faced 
as  a  bright  idea.  You  make  young  the 
grass ;  you  are  fresh  as  the  water  that 
flows  in  the  azure  cups  which  the  dawn 
distributes  over  the  greedy  buds,  ephe- 
meral as  the  dreams  of  a  child,  almost 
wide  still  and  almost  spontaneous,  yet 
already  marked  by  the  too  precocious 
brilliancy,  the  too  flaming  nimbus,  the 
too  pensive  grace,  that  overwhelm  the 
flowers  which  yield  obedience  to  man. 

C   163 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

IV 

BUT  here,  innumerous,  disordered, 
many-coloured, tumultuous, drunk  with 
dawns  and  noons,  come  the  luminous 
dances  of  the  daughters  of  Summer! 
Little  girls  with  white  veils  and  old 
maids  in  violet  ribbons,  school-girls 
home  for  the  holidays,  first-communi- 
cants, pale  nuns,  dishevelled  romps, 
gossips  and  prudes.  Here  is  the  Mari- 
gold, who  breaks  up  with  her  bright- 
ness the  green  of  the  borders.  Here  is 
the  Camomile,  like  a  nosegay  of  snow, 
beside  her  unwearying  brothers,  the 
Garden  Chrysanthemums,  whom  we 
must  not  confuse  with  the  Japanese 
Chrysanthemums  of  autumn.  The  An- 
C  173 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

nual  Helianthus,  or  Sunflower,  towers 
like  a  priest  raising  the  monstrance 
over  the  lesser  folk  in  prayer  and 
strives  to  resemble  the  luminary  which 
he  adores.  The  Poppy  exerts  himself  to 
fill  with  light  his  cup  torn  by  the  morn- 
ing wind.  The  rough  Larkspur,  in  his 
peasant's  blouse,  who  thinks  himself 
more  beautiful  than  the  sky,  looks 
down  upon  the  Dwarf  Convolvuluses, 
who  reproach  him  spitefully  with  put- 
ting too  much  blue  into  the  azure  of  his 
flowers.  The  Virginia  Stock,  arch  and 
demure  in  her  gown  of  jaconet,  like  the 
little  servant-maids  of  Dordrecht  or 
Ley  den,  washes  the  borders  of  the  beds 
with  innocence.  The  Mignonette  hides 
herself  in  her  laboratory  and  silently 

C   I*  J 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

distils  perfumes  that  give  us  a  foretaste 
of  the  air  which  we  breathe  on  the 
threshold  of  Paradise./rhe  Peonies, 
who  have  drunk  their  imprudent  fill 
of  the  sun,  burst  with  enthusiasm  and 
bend  forward  to  meet  the  coming  apo- 
plexy. The  Scarlet  Flax  traces  a  blood- 
stained furrow  that  guards  the  walks ; 
and  the  Portulaca, creeping  like  a  moss, 
studies  to  cover  with  mauve,  amber  or 
pink  taffeta  the  soil  that  has  remained 
bare  at  the  foot  of  the  tall  stalks.  The 
chub-faced  Dahlia,  a  little  round, a  little 
stupid,  carves  out  of  soap,  lard  or  wax 
his  regular  pompons,  which  will  be  the 
ornament  of  a  village  holiday.  The  old, 
paternal  Phlox,  standing  amid  the  clus- 
ters, lavishes  the  loud  laughter  of  his 
19 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 
jolly,  easy-going  colours.  The  Mal- 
lows, or  Lavateras,like  demure  misses, 
feel  the  tenderest  blushes  of  fugitive 
modesty  mount  to  their  corollas  at  the 
slightest  breath.  The  Nasturtium  paints 
his  water  colours,  or  screams  like  a 
parakeet  climbing  up  the  bars  of  its 
cage;  and  the  Rose-mallow,  Althaea 
Rosea, Hollyhock, ridingthe  high  horse 
of  her  many  names,  flaunts  her  cock- 
ades of  a  flesh  silkier  than  a  maiden's 
breast.  The  Snapdragon  and  the  almost 
transparent  Balsam  are  more  timorous 
and  awkward  and  fearfully  press  their 
flowers  against  their  stalks. 

Next,  in  the  discreet  corner  of  the  old 
families,  are  crowded  the  Long-leaved 
Veronica ;  the  Red  Potentilla ;  the  Afri- 

C  2°  3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

can  Marigold;  the  ancient  Lychnis, or 
Maltese  Cross ;  the  Mournful  Widow, 
or  Purple  Scabious;  the  Foxglove,  or 
Digitalis,  who  shoots  up  like  a  melan- 
choly rocket;  the  European  Aquilegia, 
or  Columbine ;  the  Viscaria,  who,  on  a 
long,  slim  neck, lifts  a  small  ingenuous, 
quite  round  face  to  admire  the  sky ;  the 
lurking  Lunaria,  who  secretly  manu- 
faftures  the  "Pope's  money,"  those 
pale,  flat  crown-pieces  with  which,  no 
doubt,  the  elves  and  fairies  by  moon- 
light carry  on  their  trade  in  spells; 
lastly,  the  Pheasant's-Eye,  the  red  Va- 
lerian, or  Jupiter 's-Beard,  the  Sweet 
William  and  the  old  Carnation,  that 
was  cultivated  long  ago  by  the  Grand 
Conde  in  his  exile. 

c  21 3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

/Besides  these,  above,  all  around,  on 
the  walls,  in  the  hedges,  among  the  ar- 
bours, along  the  branches,  like  a  peo- 
ple of  sportive  monkeys  and  birds,  the 
climbing  plants  make  merry,  perform 
feats  of  gymnastics,  play  at  swinging, 
at  losing  and  recovering  their  balance, 
at  falling,  at  flying,  at  looking  up  at 
space,  at  reaching  beyond  the  treetops 
to  kiss  the  sky.  Here  we  have  the  Span- 
ish Bean  and  the  Sweet  Pea,  quite  proud 
at  being  no  longer  included  among  the 
vegetables ;  the  modest  Volubilis ;  the 
Honeysuckle,  whose  scent  represents 
the  soul  of  the  dew;  the  Clematis  and 
the  Glycine;  while,  at  the  windows, 
between  the  white  curtains,  along  the 
stretched  string,  the  Campanula,  sur- 

C    22    I! 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

named  Pyramidalis,  works  such  mira- 
cles, throws  out  sheaves  and  twists  gar- 
lands formed  of  a  thousand  uniform 
flowers  so  prodigiously  immaculate  and 
transparent  that  they  who  see  it  for  the 
first  time, refusing  to  believe  their  eyes, 
want  to  touch  with  their  finger  the 
bluey  marvel,  cool  as  a  fountain,  pure 
as  a  source,  unreal  as  a  dream. 

Meanwhile,  in  a  blaze  of  light,  the 
great  white  Lily,  the  old  lord  of  the  gar- 
dens, the  only  authentic  prince  among 
all  the  commonalty  issuing  from  the 
kitchen-garden,  the  ditches,  the  copses, 
the  pools  and  the  moors,  among  the 
strangers  come  from  none  knows 
where,  with  his  invariable  six-petalled 
chalice  of  silver,  whose  nobility  dates 
C  *3  II 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

back  to  that  of  the  gods  themselves — 
the  immemorial  Lily  raises  his  ancient 
sceptre,  august,in violate,  which  creates 
around  it  a  zone  of  chastity,  silence  and 
light. 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 


I  HAVE  seen  them,  those  whom  I  have 
named  and  as  many  whom  I  have  for- 
gotten, all  thus  collected  in  the  garden 
of  an  old  sage,  the  same  that  taught  me 
to  love  the  bees.  They  displayed  them- 
selves in  beds  and  clusters,  in  symmet- 
rical borders,  ellipses,  oblongs,  quin- 
cunxes and  lozenges,  surrounded  by 
box  hedges,  red  bricks,  earthenware 
tiles  or  brass  chains,  like  precious  mat- 
ters contained  in  ordered  receptacles 
similar  to  those  which  we  find  in  the 
discoloured  engravings  that  illustrate 
the  works  of  the  old  Dutch  poet,  Jacob 
Cats.  And  the  flowers  were  drawn  up 
in  rows,  some  according  to  their  kinds, 
C  25  n 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

others  according  to  their  shapes  and 
shades,  while  others,  lastly,  mingled, 
according  to  the  happy  chances  of  the 
wind  and  the  sun,  the  most  hostile  and 
murderous  colours,  in  order  to  show 
that  nature  acknowledges  no  disso- 
nance and  that  all  that  lives  creates  its 
own  harmony. 

From  its  twelve  rounded  windows, 
with  their  shining  panes,  their  muslin 
curtains,  their  broad  green  shutters,  the 
long,  painted  house,  pink  and  gleam- 
ing as  a  shell,  watched  them  wake  at 
dawn  and  throw  off  the  brisk  diamonds 
of  the  dew  and  then  close  at  night  un- 
der the  blue  darkness  that  falls  from 
the  stars.  One  felt  that  it  took  an  in- 
telligent pleasure  in  this  gentle,  daily 

c  ^  3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

fairy-scene,  itself  solidly  planted  be- 
tween two  clear  ditches  that  lost  them- 
selves in  the  distance  of  the  immense 
pasturage  dotted  with  motionless  cows, 
while,  by  the  roadside,  a  proud  mill, 
bending  forward  like  a  preacher,  made 
familiar  signs  with  its  paternal  sails  to 
the  passers-by  from  the  village. 


C  27  D 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

VI 

HAS  this  earth  of  ours  a  fairer  orna- 
ment of  its  hours  of  leisure  than  the 
care  of  flowers  ?  It  was  beautiful  to  see 
thus  collected  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
eyes,  around  the  house  of  my  placid 
friend,  the  splendid  throng  that  tills  the 
light  to  win  from  it  marvellous  colours, 
honey  and  perfumes.  He  found  there 
translated  into  visible  joys,  fixed  at  the 
gates  of  his  house,  the  scattered,  fleet- 
ing and  almost  intangible  delights  of 
summer, — the  voluptuous  air,  the  cle- 
ment nights,  the  emotional  sunbeams, 
the  glad  hours,  the  confiding  dawn, 
the  whispering  and  mysterious  azured 
space.  He  enjoyed  not  only  their  daz- 
C  28  U 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

zling  presence;  he  also  hoped — prob- 
ably unwisely,  so  deep  and  confused 
is  that  mystery — he  also  hoped,  by 
dint  of  questioning  them,  to  surprise, 
with  their  aid,  I  know  not  what  secret 
law  or  idea  of  nature,  I  know  not  what 
private  thought  of  the  universe,  which 
perhaps  betrays  itself  in  those  ardent 
moments  in  which  it  strives  to  please 
other  beings,  to  beguile  other  lives  and 
to  create  beauty. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

VII 

OLD  flowers, I  said.  I  was  wrong;  for 
they  are  not  so  old.  When  we  study 
their  history  and  investigate  their  pedi- 
grees, we  learn  with  surprise  that  most 
of  them,  down  to  the  simplest  and 
commonest,  are  new  beings,  freedmen, 
exiles,  newcomers,  visitors,  foreign- 
ers. Any  botanical  treatise  will  reveal 
their  origins.  The  Tulip,  for  instance 
(remember  La  Bruyere's  "Solitary," 
"Oriental,"  "Agate,"  and  "Cloth  of 
Gold"),  came  from  Constantinople  in 
the  sixteenth  century.  The  Ranuncula, 
the  Lunaria,  the  Maltese  Cross,  the 
Balsam,  the  Fuchsia,  the  African  Mari- 
gold, or  Tagetes  Ere6la,  the  Rose 

C  so} 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

Campion,  or  Lychnis  Coronaria,  the 
two-coloured  Aconite,  the  Amaranthus 
Caudatus,  or  Love-lies-bleeding,  the 
Hollyhock  and  the  Campanula  Pyra- 
midalis  arrived  at  about  the  same  time 
from  the  Indies,  Mexico,  Persia,  Syria 
and  Italy.  The  Pansy  appears  in  1613; 
the  Yellow  Alyssum  in  1710;  the  Pe- 
rennial Flax  in  1775;  the  Scarlet  Flax 
in  1819;  the  Purple  Scabious  in  1629; 
the  Saxifraga  Sarmentosa  in  1771 ;  the 
Long-leaved  Veronica  in  1713.  The 
Perennial  Phlox  is  a  little  older.  The 
Indian  Pink  made  its  entrance  into  our 
gardens  about  1713.  The  Garden  Pink 
is  of  modern  date.  The  Portulaca  did 
not  make  her  appearance  till  1828;  the 
Scarlet  Sage  till  1822.  The  Ageratum, 

C  31   3 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

or  Coelestinum,  now  so  plentiful  and  so 
popular,  is  not  two  centuries  old.  The 
Helichrysum,  or  Everlasting,  is  even 
younger.  The  Zinnia  is  exaftly  a  cen- 
tenarian. The  Spanish  Bean,  a  native 
of  South  America,  and  the  Sweet  Pea, 
an  immigrant  from  Sicily,  number  a 
little  over  two  hundred  years.  The  An- 
themis,  whom  we  find  in  the  least- 
known  villages,  has  been  cultivated 
only  since  1699.  The  charming  blue 
Lobelia  of  our  borders  came  to  us  from 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  at  the  time  of 
the  French  Revolution.  The  China  As- 
ter, or  Reine  Marguerite,  is  dated  1731. 
The  Annual  or  Drummond's  Phlox, 
now  so  common,  was  sent  over  from 
Texas  in  1835.  The  large-flowered 

c  a*  3 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

Lavatera,  who  looks  so  confirmed  a 
native,  so  simple  a  rustic,has  blossomed 
in  our  gardens  only  since  two  centuries 
and  a  half;  and  the  Petunia  since  some 
twenty  lustres.  The  Mignonette,  the 
Heliotrope — who  would  believe  it? — 
are  not  two  hundred  years  old.  The 
Dahlia  was  born  in  1 802 ;  and  the  Gla- 
diolus is  of  yesterday. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

VIII 

WHAT  flowers,  then,  blossomed  in  the 
gardens  of  our  fathers?  Very  few,  no 
doubt,  and  very  small  and  very  hum- 
ble, scarce  to  be  distinguished  from 
those  of  the  roads,  the  fields  and  the 
I  glades.  Before  the  sixteenth  century, 
j  those  gardens  were  almost  bare ;  and, 
later,  Versailles  itself,  the  splendid  Ver- 
sailles, could  have  shown  us  only  what 
is  shown  to-day  by  the  poorest  village. 
Alone,  the  Violet,  the  Garden  Daisy, 
the  Lily  of  the  Valley,  the  Marigold, 
the  Poppy,  a  few  Crocuses,  a  few  Irises, 
a  few  Colchicums,  the  Foxglove,  the 
Valerian, the  Larkspur,the  Cornflower, 
the  Clove,  the  Forget-me-not,  the 
C  34  ] 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

Gillyflower,  the  Mallow,  the  Rose, 
still  almost  a  Sweetbriar,  and  the  great 
silver  Lily,  the  spontaneous  finery  of 
our  woods  and  of  our  snow-frightened, 
wind-frightened  fields  —  these  alone 
smiled  upon  our  forefathers,  who,  for 
that  matter,  were  unaware  of  their 
poverty.  Man  had  not  yet  learnt  to 
look  around  him,  to  enjoy  the  life  of 
nature.  Then  came  the  Renascence,  the 
great  voyages,  the  discovery  and  in- 
vasion of  the  sunlight.  All  the  flowers 
of  the  world,  the  successful  efforts, 
the  deep,  inmost  beauties,  the  joyful 
thoughts  and  wishes  of  the  planet,  rose 
up  to  us,  borne  on  a  shaft  of  light  that, 
in  spite  of  its  heavenly  wonder,  issued 
from  our  own  earth.  Man  ventured 
C  353 


OLD-FASH  ION  KD   FLOWKHS 

forth  from  the  cloister,  the  crypt,  the 
town  of  brick  and  stone,  the  gloomy 
stronghold  in  which  he  had  slept.  lie 
went  down  into  the  garden,  which  be- 
came peopled  with  a/ure,  purple  and 
perfumes,  opened  his  eyes,  astounded 

like  a  child  escaping  from  the  dreams 
of  the  night;  and  the  forest,  the  plain, 
the  sea  and  the  mountains,  and,  lastly, 
the  birds  and  the  flowers,  that  speak  in 
thenameof  all  a  more  human  language 
which  he  already  understood,  greeted 
his  awakening. 


OLD-FASH  ION  Kl)   L'LOWKKS 

IX 

NOWADAYS,  perhaps, there  are  no  more 
unknown  flowers.  We  have  found  all, 
or  nearly  all,  the  forms  which  nature 
lends  to  the  great  dream  of  love,  to  the 
yearning  for  beauty  that  stirs  within  her 
bosom.  We  live,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
midst  of  her  tenderest  confidences,  of 
her  most  touching  inventions.  We  take 
an  unhoped-for  part  in  the  most  myste- 
rious festivals  of  the  invisible  force  that 
animates  us  also.  Doubtless,  in  appear- 
ance, it  is  a  small  thing  that  a  few  more 
flowers  should  adorn  our  beds.  They 
only  scatter  a  few  im  potent  sm  iles  along 
the  paths  that  lead  to  the  grave.  It  is 
none  the  less  true  that  these  are  new 
[373 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

and  very  real  smiles,  which  were  un- 
known to  those  who  came  before  us; 
and  this  recently-discovered  happiness 
spreads  in  every  direction,  even  to  the 
doors  of  the  most  wretched  hovels.  The 
good,  the  simple  flowers  are  as  happy 
and  as  gorgeous  in  the  poor  man's  strip 
of  garden  as  in  the  broad  lawns  of  the 
great  house,  and  they  surround  the  cot- 
tage with  the  supreme  beauty  of  the 
earth;  for  the  earth  has  till  now  pro- 
duced nothing  more  beautiful  than  the 
flowers.  They  have  completed  the  con- 
quest of  the  globe.  Foreseeing  the  days 
when  men  shall  at  last  have  long  and 
equal  leisure,  already  they  promise  an 
equality  in  sane  enjoyments.  Yes,  as- 
suredly it  is  a  small  thing ;  and  every- 
C  38  ^ 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWERS 

thing  is  a  small  thing,  if  we  look  at  each 
of  our  little  victories  one  by  one.  It  is  a 
small  thing,  too,  in  appearance,  that  we 
should  have  a  few  more  thoughts  in  our 
heads,  a  new  feeling  at  our  hearts ;  and 
yet  it  is  just  that  which  slowly  leads  us 
where  we  hope  to  win. 

After  all,  we  have  here  a  very  real 
faft,  namely,  that  we  live  in  a  world  in 
which  flowers  are  more  beautiful  and 
more  numerous  than  formerly;  and 
perhaps  we  have  the  right  to  add  that 
the  thoughts  of  men  are  more  just  and 
greedier  of  truth.  The  smallest  joy 
gained  and  the  smallest  grief  con- 
quered should  be  marked  in  the  Book 
of  Humanity.  It  behooves  us  not  to  lose 
sight  of  any  of  the  evidence  that  we  are 
C  39  ] 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

mastering  the  nameless  powers,  that 
we  are  beginning  to  handle  some  of  the 
mysterious  laws  that  govern  the  cre- 
ated, that  we  are  making  our  planet  all 
our  own,  that  we  are  adorning  our  stay 
and  gradually  broadening  the  acreage 
of  happiness  and  of 
beautiful  life. 


[40: 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 

I  HAVE  seen  the  manner  in  which 
Spring  stores  up  sunshine,  leaves  and 
flowers  and  makes  ready,  long  before- 
hand, to  invade  the  North.  Here,  on  the 
ever  balmy  shores  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean— that  motionless  sea  which  looks 
as  though  it  were  under  glass — where, 
while  the  months  are  dark  in  the  rest 
of  Europe,  Spring  has  taken  shelter 
from  the  wind  and  the  snows  in  a  pa- 

C43  3 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
lace  of  peace  and  light  and  love,  it  is 
interesting  to  dete6l  its  preparations 
for  travelling  in  the  fields  of  undying 
green.  I  can  see  clearly  that  it  is  afraid, 
that  it  hesitates  once  more  to  face  the 
great  frost-traps  which  February  and 
March  lay  for  it  annually  beyond  the 
mountains.  It  waits,  it  dallies,  it  tries  its 
strength  before  resuming  the  harsh  and 
cruel  way  which  the  hypocrite  winter 
seems  to  yield  to  it.  It  stops,  sets  out 
again,  revisits  a  thousand  times,  like  a 
child  running  round  the  garden  of  its 
holidays,  the  fragrant  valleys,  the  ten- 
der hills  which  the  frost  has  never 
brushed  with  its  wings.  It  has  nothing 
to  do  here,  nothing  to  revive,  since 
nothing  has  perished  and  nothing  suf- 
C4O 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
fered,  since  all  the  flowers  of  every 
season  bathe  here  in  the  blue  air  of  an 
eternal  summer.But  it  seeks  pretexts, it 
lingers,  it  loiters,  it  goes  to  and  fro  like 
an  unoccupied  gardener.  It  pushes  aside 
the  branches,  fondles  with  its  breath 
the  olive-tree  that  quivers  with  a  silver 
smile,  polishes  the  glossy  grass,  rouses 
the  corollas  that  were  not  asleep,  recalls 
the  birds  that  had  never  fled,  encour- 
ages the  bees  that  were  workers  without 
ceasing;  and  then, seeing,like God, that 
all  is  well  in  the  spotless  Eden,  it  rests 
for  a  moment  on  the  ledge  of  a  terrace 
which  the  orange-tree  crowns  with  reg- 
ular flowers  and  with  fruits  of  light,  and, 
before  leaving,  casts  a  last  look  over  its 
labour  of  joy  and  entrusts  it  to  the  sun. 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 


ii 


I  HAVE  followed  it,  these  past  few  days, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Borigo,  from  the 
torrent  of  Carei  to  the  Val  de  Gorbio ;  in 
those  little  rustic  towns,  Ventimiglia, 
Tende,  Sospello;  in  those  curious  vil- 
lages, perched  upon  rocks,  Sant'  Ag- 
nese,  Castellar,  Castillon;  in  that  ador- 
able and  already  quite  Italian  country 
which  surrounds  Mentone.  You  go 
through  a  few  streets  quickened  with 
the  cosmopolitan  and  somewhat  hateful 
life  of  the  Riviera,  you  leave  behind  you 
the  band-stand,  with  its  everlasting 
town  music,  around  which  gather  the 
consumptive  rank  and  fashion  of  Men- 
tone,  and  behold,  at  two  steps  from  the 
C  46  3 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
crowd  that  dreads  it  as  it  would  a 
scourge  from  Heaven,  you  find  the  ad- 
mirable silence  of  the  trees,  all  the 
goodly  Virgilian  realities  of  sunk  roads, 
clear  springs,  shady  pools  that  sleep  on 
the  mountain-sides,  where  they  seem  to 
await  a  goddess's  reflection.  You  climb 
a  path  between  two  stone  walls  bright- 
ened by  violets  and  crowned  with  the 
strange  brown  cowls  of  the  arisarum, 
with  its  leaves  of  so  deep  a  green  that 
one  might  believe  them  to  be  created  to 
symbolize  the  coolness  of  the  well,  and 
the  amphitheatre  of  a  valley  opens  like 
a  moist  and  splendid  flower.  Through 
the  blue  veil  of  the  giant  olive-trees  that 
cover  the  horizon  with  a  transparent 
curtain  of  scintillating  pearls,  gleams 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 

the  discreet  and  harmonious  brilliancy 
of  all  that  men  imagine  in  their  dreams 
and  paint  upon  scenes  that  are  thought 
unreal  and  unrealizable,  when  they 
wish  to  define  the  ideal  gladness  of  an 
immortal  hour,  of  some  enchanted  is- 
land, of  a  lost  paradise,  or  the  dwelling 
of  the  gods. 


[48 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 

in 

ALL  along  the  valleys  of  the  coast  are 
hundreds  of  these  amphitheatres  which 
are  as  stages  whereon,  by  moonlight  or 
amid  the  peace  of  the  mornings  and 
afternoons,  are  afted  the  dumb  fairy- 
plays  of  the  world's  contentment.  They 
are  all  alike,  and  yet  each  of  them 
reveals  a  different  happiness.  Each  of 
them,  as  though  they  were  the  faces  of 
a  bevy  of  equally  happy  and  equally 
beautiful  sisters,  wears  its  distinguish- 
ing smile.  A  cluster  of  cypresses,  with  its 
pure  outline ;  a  mimosa  that  resembles 
a  bubbling  spring  of  sulphur ;  a  grove  of 
orange-trees  with  dark  and  heavy  tops 
symmetrically  charged  with  golden 
49 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 

fruits  that  suddenly  proclaim  the  royal 
affluence  of  the  soil  that  feeds  them ;  a 
slope  covered  with  lemon-trees,  where 
the  night  seems  to  have  heaped  up  on  a 
mountain-side,  to  await  a  new  twilight, 
the  stars  gathered  by  the  dawn ;  a  leafy 
portico  which  opens  over  the  sea  like  a 
deep  glance  that  suddenly  discloses  an 
infinite  thought ;  a  brook  hidden  like  a 
tear  of  joy ;  a  trellis  awaiting  the  purple 
of  the  grapes,  a  great  stone  basin  drink- 
ing in  the  water  that  trickles  from  the 
tip  of  a  green  reed — all  and  yet  none 
modify  the  expression  of  the  restful- 
ness,  the  tranquillity,  the  azure  silence, 
the  blissfulness  that  is  its  own  delight. 


£50 


-    r 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 

IV 

BUT  I  am  looking  for  winter  and  the 
print  of  its  footsteps .  Where  is  it  hiding  ? 
It  should  be  here ;  and  how  dares  this 
feast  of  roses  and  anemones,  of  soft  air 
and  dew,  of  bees  and  birds,  display  itself 
with  such  assurance  during  the  most 
pitiless  month  of  Winter's  reign  ?  And 
what  will  Spring  do,  what  will  Spring 
say,  since  all  seems  done,  since  all  seems 
said?  Is  it  superfluous,  then,  and  does 
nothing  await  it  ?  No ;  search  carefully : 
you  shall  find  amid  this  life  of  unweary- 
ing youth  the  work  of  its  hand,  the  per- 
fume of  its  breath  which  is  younger 
than  life.  Thus,  there  are  foreign  trees 
yonder,  taciturn  guests,  like  poor  rela- 

Csi  3 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
tions  in  ragged  clothes.  They  come 
from  very  far,  from  the  land  of  fog  and 
frost  and  wind.  They  are  aliens,  sullen 
and  distrustful.  They  have  not  yet 
learned  the  limpid  speed,  not  adopted 
the  delightful  customs  of  the  azure. 
They  refused  to  believe  in  the  promises 
of  the  sky  and  suspefted  the  caresses 
of  the  sun  which,  from  early  dawn, 
covers  them  with  a  mantle  of  silkier  and 
warmer  rays  than  that  with  which  July 
loaded  their  shoulders  in  the  precarious 
summers  of  their  native  land.  It  made 
no  difference:  at  the  given  hour,  when 
snow  was  falling  a  thousand  miles 
away,  their  trunks  shivered,  and,  de- 
spite the  bold  averment  of  the  grass  and 
a  hundred  thousand  flowers,  despite  the 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 

impertinence  of  the  roses  that  climb  up 
to  them  to  bear  witness  to  life,  they 
stripped  themselves  for  their  winter 
sleep.  Sombre  and  grim  and  bare  as  the 
dead,  they  await  the  Spring  that  bursts 
forth  around  them;  and,  by  a  strange 
and  excessive  reaction,  they  wait  for  it 
longer  than  under  the  harsh,  gloomy 
sky  of  Paris,  for  it  is  said  that  in  Paris 
the  buds  are  already  beginning  to  shoot. 
One  catches  glimpses  of  them  here 
and  there  amid  the  holiday  throng 
whose  motionless  dances  enchant  the 
hills.  They  are  not  many  and  they 
conceal  themselves:  they  are  gnarled 
oaks,  beeches,  planes;  and  even  the 
vine,  which  one  would  have  thought 
better-m annered ,  more  docile  and  well- 
C  53  n 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
informed,  remains  incredulous.  There 
they  stand,  black  and  gaunt,  like  sick 
people  on  an  Easter  Sunday  in  the 
church-porch  made  transparent  by  the 
splendour  of  the  sun.  They  have  been 
there  for  years,  and  some  of  them,  per- 
haps, for  two  or  three  centuries ;  but 
they  have  the  terror  of  winter  in  their 
marrow.  They  will  never  lose  the  habit 
of  death.  They  have  too  much  expe- 
rience, they  are  too  old  to  forget  and 
too  old  to  learn.  Their  hardened  reason 
refuses  to  admit  the  light  when  it  does 
not  come  at  the  accustomed  time.  They 
are  rugged  old  men,  too  wise  to  enjoy 
unforeseen  pleasures.  They  are  wrong. 
For  here,  around  the  old,  around  the 
grudging  ancestors,  is  a  whole  world 
C  54  I] 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 

of  plants  that  know  nothing  of  the  fu- 
ture, but  give  themselves  to  it.  They 
live  but  for  a  season ;  they  have  no  past 
and  no  traditions  and  they  know  no- 
thing, except  that  the  hour  is  fair  and 
that  they  must  enjoy  it.  While  their 
elders,  their  masters  and  their  gods, 
sulk  and  waste  their  time,  they  burst 
into  flower ;  they  love  and  they  beget. 
They  are  the  humble  flowers  of  dear 
solitude, — the  Easter  daisy  that  covers 
the  sward  with  its  frank  and  methodi- 
cal neatness ;  the  borage  bluer  than  the 
bluest  sky;  the  anemone,  scarlet  or 
dyed  in  aniline;  the  virgin  primrose  ;the 
arborescent  mallow;  the  bell-flower, 
shaking  its  bells  that  no  one  hears ;  the 
rosemary  that  looks  like  a  little  country 

C55H 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 

maid ;  and  the  heavy  thyme  that  thrusts 
its  grey  head  between  the  broken 
stones. 

But,  above  all,  this  is  the  incompar- 
able hour,  the  diaphanous  and  liquid 
hour  of  the  wood-violet.  Its  proverbial 
humility  becomes  usurping  and  almost 
intolerant.  It  no  longer  cowers  timidly 
among  the  leaves:  it  hustles  the  grass, 
overtowers  it,  blots  it  out,  forces  its  co- 
lours upon  it,  fills  it  with  its  breath.  Its 
unnumbered  smiles  cover  the  terraces 
of  olives  and  vines,  the  tracks  of  the  ra- 
vines, the  bend  of  the  valleys  with  a  net 
of  sweet  and  innocent  gaiety ;  its  per- 
fume, fresh  and  pure  as  the  soul  of  the 
mountain  spring,  makes  the  air  more 
translucent,  the  silence  more  limpid  and 
C  56  ^ 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
is,  in  very  deed,  as  a  forgotten  legend 
tells  us,  the  breath  of  Earth,  all  bathed 
in  dew,  when,  a  virgin  yet,  she  wakes 
in  the  sun  and  yields  herself  wholly  in 
the  first  kiss  of  early  dawn. 


C573 


NEWS  OF   SPRING 


AGAIN,  in  the  little  gardens  that  sur- 
round the  cottages,  the  bright  little 
houses  with  their  Italian  roofs,  the  good 
vegetables,  unprejudiced,  and  unpre- 
tentious, have  known  no  fear.  While  the 
old  peasant,  who  has  come  to  resemble 
the  trees  he  cultivates,  digs  the  earth 
around  the  olives,  the  spinach  assumes 
a  lofty  bearing,  hastens  to  grow  green 
nor  takes  the  smallest  precaution ;  the 
garden  bean  opens  its  eyes  of  jet  in 
its  pale  leaves  and  sees  the  night  fall 
unmoved;  the  fickle  peas  shoot  and 
lengthen  out,  covered  with  motionless 
and  tenacious  butterflies,  as  though 
June  had  entered  the  farm-gate;  the 
C58  3 


NEWS   OF    SPRING 

carrot  blushes  as  it  faces  the  light ;  the 
ingenuous  strawberry-plants  inhale  the 
flavours  which  noontide  lavishes  upon 
them  as  it  bends  towards  earth  its  sap- 
phire urns ;  the  lettuce  exerts  itself  to 
achieve  a  heart  of  gold  wherein  to  lock 
the  dews  of  morning  and  night. 

The  fruit-trees  alone  have  long  re- 
fle6led:  the  example  of  the  vegetables 
among  which  they  live  urged  them  to 
join  in  the  general  rejoicing,  but  the 
rigid  attitude  of  their  elders  from  the 
North,  of  the  grandparents  born  in  the 
great  dark  forests,  preached  prudence 
to  them.  But  now  they  awaken:  they 
too  can  resist  no  longer  and  at  last 
make  up  their  minds  to  join  the  dance 
of  perfumes  and  of  love.  The  peach- 

C  59~] 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 

trees  are  now  no  more  than  a  rosy  mi- 
racle, like  the  softness  of  a  child's  skin 
turned  into  azure  vapour  by  the  breath 
of  dawn.  The  pear  and  plum  and  apple 
and  almond-trees  make  dazzling  ef- 
forts in  drunken  rivalry ;  and  the  pale 
hazel-trees,  like  Venetian  chandeliers, 
resplendent  with  a  cascade  of  gems, 
stand  here  and  there  to  light  the  feast. 
for  the  luxurious  flowers  that  seem 
to  possess  no  other  objeft  than  theni^ 
selves,)they  have  long  abandoned  the 
endeavour  to  solve  the  mystery  of  this 
boundless  summer.  They  no  longer 
score  the  seasons,  no  longer  count  the 
days,  and,  knowing  not  what  to  do  in 
the  glowing  disarray  of  hours  that  have 
no  shadow,  dreading  lest  they  should 


NEWS  OF  SPRING 
be  deceived  and  lose  a  single  second 
that  might  be  fair,  they  have  resolved 
to  bloom  without  respite  from  January 
to  Decembei^Nature  approves  them, 
ancLrtereward  their  trust  in  happiness, 


their  generous  beauty  and  amorous  ex- 
cesses, grants  them  a?  force,  a  brilliancy 
and  perfumes  which  she  never  gives  to 
those  which  hang  back  and  show  a  fear 
of  life. 

All  this,  among  other  truths,  was  pro- 
claimed by  the  little  house  that  I  saw 
to-day  on  the  side  of  a  hill  all  deluged 
in  roses,  carnations,  wall-flowers,  he- 
liotrope and  mignonette,  so  as  to  sug- 
gest the  source,  choked  and  overflow- 
ing with  flowers,  whence  Spring  was 
preparing  to  pour  down  upon  us ;  while, 


NEWS   OF   SPRING 
upon  the  stone  threshold  of  the  closed 
door,  pumpkins,  lemons, oranges,  limes 
and  Turkey  figs  slumbered  in  the  ma- 
jestic, deserted,  monotonous  silence 
of  a  per f eft  day. 


FIELD   FLOWERS 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

THEY  welcome  our  steps  without  the 
city  gates,  on  a  gay  and  eager  carpet 
of  many  colours,  which  they  wave 
madly  in  the  sunlight.  It  is  evident  that 
they  were  expe6ling  us.  When  the  first 
bright  rays  of  March  appeared,  the 
Snowdrop,  or  Amaryllis,  the  heroic 
daughter  of  the  hoar-frost,  sounded  the 
reveille.  Next  sprang  from  the  earth  ef- 
forts, as  yet  shapeless,  of  a  slumbering 

C  65  II 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

memory, — vague  ghosts  of  flowers, 
pale  flowers  that  are  scarcely  flowers 
at  all:  the  three-fingered  Saxifrage,  or 
Samphire;  the  almost  invisible  Shep- 
herd 's-Pouch;  the  two-leaved  Squill; 
the  Stinking  Hellebore^  or  Christmas 
Rose;  the  Colt's-Foot;  the  gloomy  and 
poisonous  Spurge  Laurel — all  plants  of 
frail  and  doubtful  health,  pale-blue, 
pale-pink,  undecided  attempts,  the  first 
fever  of  life  in  which  nature  expels  her 
ill-humours,  anaemic  captives  set  free 
by  winter,  convalescent  patients  from 
the  underground  prisons,  timid  and  un- 
skilful endeavours  of  the  still  buried 
light. 

But  soon  this  light  ventures  forth  into 
space ;  the  nuptial  thoughts  of  the  earth 
C  ^6] 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

become  clearer  and  purer;  the  rough 
attempts  disappear ;  the  half-dreams  of 
the  night  lift  like  a  fog  dispelled  by  the 
dawn ;  and  the  good  rustic  flowers  be- 
gin their  unseen  revels  under  the  blue, 
all  around  the  cities  where  man  knows 
them  not.  No  matter,  they  are  there, 
making  honey,  while  their  proud  and 
barren  sisters,  who  alone  receive  our 
care,  are  still  trembling  in  the  depths  of 
the  hot-houses.  They  will  still  be  there, 
in  the  flooded  fields,  in  the  broken 
paths,  and  adorning  the  roads  with  their 
simplicity,  when  the  first  snows  shall 
have  covered  the  country-side.  No  one 
sows  them  and  no  one  gathers  them. 
They  survive  their  glory,  and  man 
treads  them  under  foot.  Formerly, 
[  67  3 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

however,  and  not  so  long  ago,  they 
alone  represented  Nature's  gladness. 
Formerly,  however,  a  few  hundred 
years  ago,  before  their  dazzling  and 
chilly  kinswomen  had  come  from  the 
Antilles,  from  India,  from  Japan,  or  be- 
fore their  own  daughters,  ungrateful 
and  unrecognizable,  had  usurped  their 
place,  they  alone  enlivened  the  stricken 
gaze,  they  alone  brightened  the  cot- 
tage porch,  the  castle  precinfts,  and 
followed  the  lovers'  footsteps  in  the 
woods.  But  those  times  are  no  more; 
and  they  are  dethroned.  They  have  re- 
tained of  their  past  happiness  only  the 
names  which  they  received  when  they 
were  loved. 
And  these  names  show  all  that  they 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

were  to  man ;  all  his  gratitude,  his  stu- 
dious fondness,  all  that  he  owed  them, 
all  that  they  gave  him,  are  there  con- 
tained, like  a  secular  aroma  in  hollow 
pearls.  And  so  they  bear  names  of 
queens,  shepherdesses,  virgins,  prin- 
cesses, sylphs  and  fairies,  which  flow 
from  the  lips  like  a  caress,  a  lightning- 
flash,  a  kiss,  a  murmur  of  love.  Our  lan- 
guage, I  think,  contains  nothing  that  is 
better,  more  daintily,  more  affection- 
ately named  than  these  homely  flow- 
ers. Here  the  word  clothes  the  idea  al- 
most always  with  care,  with  light  pre- 
cision, with  admirable  happiness.  It  is 
like  an  ornate  and  transparent  stuff  that 
moulds  the  form  which  it  embraces  and 
has  the  proper  shade,  perfume  and 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

sound.  Call  to  mind  the  Easter  Daisy, 
the  Violet,  the  Bluebell,  the  Poppy,  or, 
rather,  Coquelicot — the  name  is  the 
flower  itself.  How  wonderful,  for  in- 
stance, that  sort  of  cry  and  crest  of  light 
and  joy,  "Coquelicot!" — to  designate 
the  scarlet  flower  which  the  scientists 
crush  under  this  barbarous  title,  Papa- 
ver  rhoeas!  See  the  Primrose,  or,  ra- 
ther, the  Cowslip,  the  Periwinkle,  the 
Anemone,  the  Wild  Hyacinth,  the  blue 
Speedwell,  the  Forget-me-not,  the 
Wild  Bindweed,  the  Iris,  the  Harebell: 
their  name  depi<5ts  them  by  equivalents 
and  analogies  which  the  greatest  poets 
but  rarely  light  upon.  It  represents  all 
their  ingenuous  and  visible  soul.  It  hides 
itself,  it  bends  over,  it  rises  to  the  ear 


FIELD   FLOWERS 
even  as  those  who  bear  it  lie  concealed, 
stoop  forward,  or  stand  ere6l  in  the 
corn  and  in  the  grass. 

These  are  the  few  names  that  are 
known  to  all  of  us ;  we  do  not  know  the 
others,  though  their  music  describes 
with  the  same  gentleness,  the  same 
happy  genius,  flowers  which  we  see  by 
every  wayside  and  upon  all  the  paths. 
Thus,  at  this  moment,  that  is  to  say,  at 
the  end  of  the  month  in  which  the  ripe 
corn  falls  beneath  the  reaper's  sickle, 
the  banks  of  the  roads  are  a  pale  vio- 
let: it  is  the  Sweet  Scabious,  who  has 
blossomed  at  last,  discreet,  aristocrati- 
cally poor  and  modestly  beautiful,  as 
her  title,  that  of  a  mist-veiled  precious 
stone,  proclaims.  Around  her,  a  trea- 
C  71  ] 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

sure  lies  scattered:  it  is  the  Ranunculus, 
or  Buttercup,  who  has  two  names,  even 
as  he  has  two  lives ;  for  he  is  at  once  the 
innocent  virgin  that  covers  the  grass 
with  sun-drops,  and  the  redoubtable 
and  venomous  wizard  that  deals  out 
death  to  heedless  animals.  Again  we 
have  the  Milfoil  and  the  St.  John's 
Wort,  little  flowers,  once  useful,  that 
march  along  the  roads,  like  silent 
school-girls,  clad  in  a  dull  uniform ;  the 
vulgar  and  innumerous  Bird's  Ground- 
sel ;  her  big  brother,  the  Hare's  Lettuce 
of  the  fields ;  then  the  dangerous  black 
Nightshade;  the  Bitter-sweet,  who 
hides  herself;  the  creeping  Knotweed, 
with  the  patient  leaves:  all  the  families 
without  show,  with  the  resigned  smile, 
C  72  H 


FIELD   FLOWERS 
wearing  the  practical  grey  livery  of 
autumn,  which  already  is  felt  to  be  at 
hand. 


C7S3 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

ii 

BUT,  among  those  of  March,  April, 
May,  June,  July,  remember  the  glad 
and  festive  names,  the  springtime  syl- 
lables, the  vocables  of  azure  and  dawn, 
of  moonlight  and  sunshine !  Here  is  the 
Snowdrop,or  Amaryllis,  who  proclaims 
the  thaw;  the  Stitch  wort,  or  Lady's 
Collar,  who  greets  the  first-communi- 
cants along  the  hedges,  whose  leaves 
are  as  yet  indeterminate  and  uncertain, 
like  a  diaphanous  green  lye.  Here  are 
the  sad  Columbine  and  the  Field  Sage, 
the  Jasione,  the  Angelica,  the  Field 
Fennel,  the  Wall-flower,  dressed  like 
a  servant  of  a  village- priest ;  the  Os- 
mond, who  is  a  king  fern ;  the  Luzula, 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

the  Parmelia,  the  Venus'  Looking- 
glass  ;  the  Esula  or  Wood  Spurge, mys- 
terious and  full  of  sombre  fire ;  the  Phy- 
salidis,  whose  fruit  ripens  in  a  lantern; 
the  Henbane,  the  Belladonna, the  Digi- 
talis, poisonous  queens,  veiled  Cleopa- 
tras  of  the  untilled  places  and  the  cool 
woods.  And  then,  again,  the  Camomile, 
the  good-capped  Sister  with  a  thousand 
smiles, bringing  the  health-giving  brew 
in  an  earthenware  bowl;  the  Pimper- 
nel and  the  Coronilla,  the  pale  Mint 
and  the  pink  Thyme,  the  Sainfoin  and 
the  Euphrasy,  the  Ox-eye  Daisy,  the 
mauve  Gentian  and  the  blue  Verbena, 
the  Anthemis,  the  lance-shaped  Horse- 
Thistle,  the  Cinquefoil  or  Potentilla,the 
Dyer's  Weed  ....  to  tell  their  names 
C  75  1 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

is  to  recite  a  poem  of  grace  and  light. 
We  have  reserved  for  them  the  most 
charming,  the  purest,  the  clearest 
sounds  and  all  the  musical  gladness  of 
the  language.  One  would  think  that 
they  were  the  persons  of  a  play,  dancers 
and  choristers  of  an  immense  fairy- 
scene,  more  beautiful,  more  startling 
and  more  supernatural  than  the  scenes 
that  unfold  themselves  on  Prospero's 
Island,  at  the  Court  of  Theseus,  or  in 
the  Forest  of  Arden.  And  the  comely 
aftresses  of  this  silent,  never-ending 
comedy — goddesses,  angels,  she  de- 
vils, princesses  and  witches,  virgins  and 
courtezans,  queens  and  shepherd-girls 
— carry  in  the  folds  of  their  names  the 
magic  sheens  of  innumerous  dawns,  of 
C  76  3 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

innumerous  springtimes  contemplated 
by  forgotten  men,  even  as  they  also 
carry  the  memory  of  thousands  of  deep 
or  fleeting  emotions  which  were  felt 
before  them  by  generations  that  have 
disappeared,  leaving  no  other  trace. 


C  77} 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

in 

THEY  are  interesting  and  incompre- 
hensible. They  are  vaguely  called  the 
"Weeds."  They  serve  no  purpose. 
Here  and  there  a  few,  in  very  old  vil- 
lages, retain  the  spell  of  contested  vir- 
tues. Here  and  there  one  of  them, 
right  at  the  bottom  of  the  apothecary's 
or  herbalist's  jars,  still  awaits  the  com- 
ing of  the  sick  man  faithful  to  the  in- 
fusions of  tradition.  But  sceptic  medi- 
cine will  have  none  of  them.  No  longer 
are  they  gathered  according  to  the 
olden  rites ;  and  the  science  of  "  Sim- 
ples" is  dying  out  in  the  housewife's 
memory.  A  merciless  war  is  waged  up- 
on them.  The  husbandman  fears  them ; 
C  783 


FIELD   FLOWERS 

the  plough  pursues  them ;  the  gardener 
hates  them  and  has  armed  himself 
against  them  with  clashing  weapons: 
the  spade  and  the  rake,  the  hoe  and  the 
scraper,  the  weeding-hook,  the  grub- 
bing-axe.  Along  the  highroads,  their 
last  refuge,  the  passer-by  crushes  them, 
the  waggon  bruises  them.  In  spite  of 
all,  they  are  there:  permanent,assured, 
abundant,  peaceful;  and  not  one  but 
answers  the  summons  of  the  sun.  They 
follow  the  seasons  without  swerving  by 
an  hour.  They  take  no  account  of  man, 
who  exhausts  himself  in  conquering 
them,  and,  so  soon  as  he  rests,  they 
spring  up  in  his  footsteps.  They  live 
on,  audacious,  immortal,  untamable. 
They  have  peopled  our  flower-baskets 

C  79^ 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

with  extravagant  and  unnatural  daugh- 
ters; but  they,  the  poor  mothers,  have 
remained  similar  to  what  they  were 
a  hundred  thousand  years  ago.  They 
have  not  added  a  fold  to  their  petals, 
reordered  a  pistil,  altered  a  shade,  in- 
vented a  perfumeyThey  keep  the  se- 
cret of  a  inyslefious  mission.  They  are 
the  indelible  primitives.  The  soil  is 
theirs  since  its  origin.  They  represent, 
in  short,  an  essential  smile,  an  invari- 
able thought,  an  obstinate  desire  of  the 
Earth. 

That  is  why  it  is  well  to  question  them. 
They  have  evidently  something  to  tell 
us.  And,  then, let  us  not  forget  that  they 
were  the  first — with  the  sunrises  and 
sunsets,  with  the  springs  and  autumns, 


FIELD  FLOWERS 

with  the  song  of  the  birds,  with  the  hair, 

the  glance  and  the  divine  movements 

of  women — to  teach  our  fathers  that 

there  are  useless  and  beautiful 

things  upon  this  globe. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 


CHRTSAJVTHEMUMS 

EVERY  year,  in  November,  at  the  sea- 
son that  follows  on  the  hour  of  the  dead, 
the  crowning  and  majestic  hour  of  au- 
tumn, reverently  I  go  to  visit  the  chrys^ 
anthemums  in  the  places  where  chance 
offers  them  to  my  sight.  For  the  rest,  it 
matters  little  where  they  are  shown  to 
me  by  the  good  will  of  travel  or  of  so- 
journ. They  are,  indeed,  the  most  uni- 
versal, the  most  diverse  of  flowers ;  but 
C  853 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

their  diversity  and  surprises  are,  so  to 
speak,  concerted,  like  those  of  fashion, 
in  I  know  not  what  arbitrary  Edens.  At 
the  same  moment,  even  as  with  silks, 
laces,  jewels  and  curls,  a  mysterious 
voice  gives  the  password  in  time  and 
space ;  and,  docile  as  the  most  beautiful 
women,  simultaneously, in  every  coun- 
try, in  every  latitude,  the  flowers  obey 
the  sacred  decree. 

It  is  enough,  then,  to  enter  at  random 
one  of  those  crystal  museums  in  which 
their  somewhat  funereal  riches  are  dis- 
played under  the  harmonious  veil  of  the 
days  of  November.  We  at  once  grasp 
the  dominant  idea, the  obtrusive  beauty, 
the  unexpefted  effort  of  the  year  in  this 
special  world,  strange  and  privileged 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
even  in  the  midst  of  the  strange  and 
privileged  world  of  flowers.  And  we 
ask  ourselves  if  this  new  idea  is  a  pro- 
found and  really  necessary  idea  on  the 
part  of  the  sun,  the  earth,  life,  autumn, 
or  man. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

ii 

YESTERDAY,  then,  I  went  to  admire  the 
year's  gentle  and  gorgeous  floral  feast, 
the  last  which  the  snows  of  December 
and  January,  like  a  broad  belt  of  peace, 
sleep,  silence  and  night,  separate  from 
the  delicious  festivals  that  commence 
again  with  the  germination  ( powerful 
already,  though  hardly  visible)  that 
seeks  the  light  in  February. 

They  are  there,  under  the  immense 
transparent  dome,  the  noble  flowers  of 
the  month  of  fogs ;  they  are  there,  at 
the  royal  meeting-place,  all  the  grave 
little  autumn  fairies,  whose  dances  and 
attitudes  seem  to  have  been  struck  mo- 
tionless with  a  single  word.  The  eye 
C88  3 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
that  recognizes  them  and  has  learned  to 
love  them  perceives,  at  the  first  pleased 
glance,  that  they  have  actively  and  du- 
tifully continued  to  evolve  towards  their 
uncertain  ideal.  Go  back  for  a  moment 
to  their  modest  origin:  look  at  the  poor 
buttercup  of  yore,  the  humble  little 
crimson  or  damask  rose  that  still  smiles 
sadly,  along  the  roads  full  of  dead 
leaves,  in  the  scanty  garden-patches 
of  our  villages;  compare  with  them 
these  enormous  masses  and  fleeces  of 
snow,  these  disks  and  globes  of  red 
copper,  these  spheres  of  old  silver, 
these  trophies  of  alabaster  and  ame- 
thyst, this  delirious  prodigy  of  petals 
which  seems  to  be  trying  to  exhaust 
to  its  last  riddle  the  world  of  autumnal 
C  89  n 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

shapes  and  shades  which  the  winter 
entrusts  to  the  bosom  of  the  sleeping 
woods;  let  the  unwonted  and  unex- 
pefted  varieties  pass  before  your  eyes ; 
admire  and  appraise  them. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  the  marvellous 
family  of  the  stars:  flat  stars,  bursting 
stars,  diaphanous  stars,  solid  and  fleshly 
stars,  milky  ways  and  constellations  of 
the  earth  that  correspond  with  those  of 
the  firmament.  Here  are  the  proud 
plumes  that  await  the  diamonds  of  the 
dew ;  here,  to  put  our  dreams  to  shame, 
the  fascinating  poem  of  unreal  tresses : 
wise,  precise  and  meticulous  tresses; 
mad  and  miraculous  tresses ;  honeyed 
moonbeams,  golden  bushes  and  flam- 
ing whirlpools ;  curls  of  fair  and  smil- 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

ing  maidens,  of  fleeing  nymphs,  of  pas- 
sionate bacchantes,  of  swooning  sirens, 
of  cold  virgins,  of  frolicsome  children, 
whom  angels,  mothers,  fauns,  lovers, 
have  caressed  with  their  calm  or  quiv- 
ering hands.  And  then  here,  pellmell, 
are  the  monsters  that  cannot  be  classed : 
hedgehogs,  spiders,  curly  endives,  pine- 
apples, pompons,  Tudor  roses,  shells, 
vapours,  breaths,  stalaftites  of  ice  and 
falling  snow,  a  throbbing  hail  of  sparks, 
wings,  flashes,  fluffy,  pulpy,  fleshy 
things,  wattles, bristles, funeral  pilesand 
sky-rockets,  bursts  of  light,  a  stream 
of  fire  and  sulphur. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

m 

Now  that  the  shapes  have  capitulated 
comes  the  question  of  conquering  the 
region  of  the  proscribed  colours,  of  the 
reserved  shades,  which  the  autumn,  as 
we  can  see,  denies  to  the  flowers  that 
represent  it.  Lavishly  it  bestows  on 
them  all  the  wealth  of  the  twilight  and 
the  night,  all  the  riches  of  the  harvest- 
time:  it  gives  them  all  the  mud-brown 
work  of  the  rain  in  the  woods,  all  the 
silvery  fashionings  of  the  mist  in  the 
plains,  of  the  frost  and  the  snow  in  the 
gardens.  It  permits  them,  above  all,  to 
draw  at  will  upon  the  inexhaustible 
treasures  of  the  dead  leaves  and  the  ex- 
piring forest.  It  allows  them  to  deck 

[92  n 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

themselves  with  the  golden  sequins,  the 
bronze  medals,  the  silver  buckles,  the 
copper  spangles,  the  elfin  plumes,  the 
powdered  amber,  the  burnt  topazes,  the 
negle<5led  pearls,  the  smoked  ame- 
thysts, the  calcined  garnets,  all  the 
dead  but  still  dazzling  jewellery  which 
the  North  Wind  heaps  up  in  the  hollows 
of  ravines  and  footpaths ;  but  it  insists 
that  they  shall  remain  faithful  to  their 
old  masters  and  wear  the  livery  of  the 
drab  and  weary  months  that  give  them 
birth.  It  does  not  permit  them  to  be- 
tray those  masters  and  to  don  the 
princely,  changing  dresses  of  the  spring 
and  the  dawn ;  and  if,  sometimes,  it  suf- 
fers a  pink,  this  is  only  on  condition  that 
it  be  borrowed  from  the  cold  lips,  the 
[9311 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
pale  brow  of  the  veiled  and  affli6led 
virgin  praying  on  a  tomb.  It  forbids 
most  striftly  the  tints  of  summer,  of  too 
youthful,  ardent  and  serene  a  life,  of  a 
health  too  joyous  and  expansive.  In  no 
case  will  it  consent  to  hilarious  vermil- 
ions, impetuous  scarlets,  imperious  and 
dazzling  purples.  As  for  the  blues,  from 
the  azure  of  the  dawn  to  the  indigo  of 
the  sea  and  the  deep  lakes,  from  the 
periwinkle  to  the  borage  and  the  corn- 
flower, they  are  banished  on  pain  of 
death. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

IV 

NEVERTHELESS,  thanks  to  some  forget- 
fulness  of  nature,  the  most  unusual 
colour  in  the  world  of  flowers  and  the 
most  severely  forbidden — the  colour 
which  the  corolla  of  the  poisonous  eu- 
phorbia is  almost  the  only  one  to  wear 
in  the  city  of  the  umbels,  petals  and 
calyces — green,  the  colour  exclusively 
reserved  for  the  servile  and  nutrient 
leaves,  has  penetrated  within  the  jeal- 
ously-guarded precinfts.  True,  it  has 
slipped  in  only  by  favour  of  a  lie,  as  a 
traitor,  a  spy,  a  livid  deserter.  It  is  a  for- 
sworn yellow,  steeped  fearfully  in  the 
fugitive  azure  of  the  moonbeam.  It  is 
still  of  the  night  and  false,  like  the  opal 
C95  ] 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

depths  of  the  sea ;  it  reveals  itself  only 
in  shifting  patches  at  the  tips  of  the  pe- 
tals; it  is  vague  and  anxious,  frail  and 
elusive,  but  undeniable.  It  has  made  its 
entrance,  it  exists,  it  asserts  itself;  it 
will  be  daily  more  fixed  and  more 
determined;  and,  through  the  breach 
which  it  has  contrived,  all  the  joys  and 
all  the  splendours  of  the  banished  prism 
will  hurl  themselves  into  their  virgin 
domain, there  to  prepare  unaccustomed 
feasts  for  our  eyes.  This  is  a  great  tiding 
and  a  memorable  conquest  in  the  land 
of  flowers. 

We  must  not  think  that  it  is  puerile 
thus  to  interest  one's  self  in  the  capri- 
cious forms,  the  unwritten  shades  of  a 
humble,  useless  flower,  nor  must  we 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
treat  those  who  seek  to  make  it  more 
beautiful  or  more  strange  as  La  Bru- 
yere  once  treated  the  lover  of  the  tulip 
or  the  plum.  Do  you  remember  the 
charming  page? 

"The  lover  of  flowers  has  a  garden  in 
the  suburbs,  where  he  spends  all  his 
time  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  You  see 
him  standing  there  and  would  think 
that  he  had  taken  root  in  the  midst 
of  his  tulips  before  his  'Solitaire;'  he 
opens  his  eyes  wide,  rubs  his  hands, 
stoops  down  and  looks  closer  at  it;  it 
never  before  seemed  to  him  so  hand- 
some; he  is  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  and 
leaves  it  to  go  to  the  '  Orient/  then  to 
the '  Widow/  from  thence  to  the c  Cloth 

£97  3 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

of  Gold/  on  to  the  *  Agatha/  and  at  last 
returns  to  the '  Solitaire/  where  he  re- 
mains, is  tired  out,  sits  down,  and  for- 
gets his  dinner;  he  looks  at  the  tulip 
and  admires  its  shade,  shape,  colour, 
sheen  and  edges,  its  beautiful  form  and 
calyc ;  but  God  and  nature  are  not  in 
his  thoughts,  for  they  do  not  go  beyond 
the  bulb  of  his  tulip,  which  he  would 
not  sell  for  a  thousand  crowns,  though 
he  will  give  it  to  you  for  nothing  when 
tulips  are  no  longer  in  fashion  and  car- 
nations are  all  the  rage.  This  rational 
being,  who  has  a  soul  and  professes 
some  religion,  comes  home  tired  and 
half  starved,  but  very  pleased  with  his 
day's  work:  he  has  seen  some  tulips. 
"  Talk  to  another  of  the  healthy  look 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
of  the  crops,  of  a  plentiful  harvest,  of 
a  good  vintage,  and  you  will  find  that 
he  cares  only  for  fruit  and  understands 
not  a  single  word  that  you  say ;  then 
turn  to  figs  and  melons ;  tell  him  that 
this  year  the  pear-trees  are  so  heavily 
laden  with  fruit  that  the  branches  al- 
most break,  that  there  is  abundance 
of  peaches,  and  you  address  him  in  a 
language  which  he  completely  ignores, 
and  he  will  not  answer  you,  for  his  sole 
hobby  is  plum-trees.  Do  not  even  speak 
to  him  of  your  plum-trees,  for  heisfond 
of  only  a  certain  kind,  and  laughs  and 
sneers  at  the  mention  of  any  others ;  he 
takes  you  to  his  tree  and  cautiously 
gathers  this  exquisite  plum,  divides  it, 
gives  you  one  half,  keeps  the  other  him- 
C99D 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
self  and  exclaims, 'How  delicious!  Do 
you  like  it  ?  Is  it  not  heavenly  ?  You  can- 
not find  its  equal  anywhere ; '  and  then 
his  nostrils  dilate,  and  he  can  hardly 
contain  his  joy  and  pride  under  an  ap- 
pearance of  modesty.  What  a  wonder- 
ful person,  never  enough  praised  and 
admired,  whose  name  will  be  handed 
down  to  future  ages !  Let  me  look  at  his 
mien  and  shape,  while  he  is  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  that  I  may  study  the 
features  and  the  countenance  of  a  man 
who,  alone  among  mortals,  is  the  happy 
possessor  of  such  a  plum/' 

Well, La  Bruyere  is  wrong.  We  readily 
forgive  him  his  mistake,  for  the  sake  of 
the  marvellous  window,  which  he,  alone 

C  10°  3 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

among  the  authors  of  his  time,  opens 
upon  the  unexpected  gardens  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  fa6l  none  the 
less  remains  that  it  is  to  his  somewhat 
bigoted  florist,  to  his  somewhat  fren- 
zied horticulturist,  that  we  owe  our 
exquisite  flower-beds,  our  more  varied, 
more  abundant,  more  luscious  vege- 
tables, our  even  more  delicious  fruits. 
Contemplate,  for  instance,  around  the 
chrysanthemums,  the  marvels  that 
ripen  nowadays  in  the  meanest  gar- 
dens, among  the  long  branches  wisely 
subdued  by  the  patient  and  generous 
espaliers.  Less  than  a  century  ago  they 
were  unknown ;  and  we  owe  them  to 
the  trifling  and  innumerable  exertions 
of  a  legion  of  small  seekers,  all  more 

C 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 
or  less  narrow,  all  more  or  less  ridi- 
culous. 

It  is  thus  that  man  acquires  nearly  all 
his  riches.  There  is  nothing  that  is  pue- 
rile in  nature ;  and  he  who  becomes  im- 
passioned of  a  flower,  a  blade  of  grass, 
a  butterfly's  wing,  a  nest,  a  shell,  wraps 
his  passion  around  a  small  thing  that 
always  contains  a  great  truth.  To  suc- 
ceed in  modifying  the  appearance  of  a 
flower  is  insignificant  in  itself,  if  you 
will;  but  refle6l  upon  it  for  however 
short  a  while,  and  it  becomes  gigantic. 
Do  we  not  violate,  or  deviate,  pro- 
found, perhaps  essential  and,  in  any 
case,  time-honoured  laws?  Do  we  not 
exceed  too  easily  accepted  limits?  Do 
we  not  direftly  intrude  our  ephemeral 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

will  on  that  of  the  eternal  forces  ?  Do 
we  not  give  the  idea  of  a  singular 
power,  a  power  almost  supernatural, 
since  it  inverts  a  natural  order  of 
things?  And,  although  it  is  prudent  to 
guard  against  over-ambitious  dreams, 
does  not  this  allow  us  to  hope  that  we 
may  perhaps  learn  to  elude  or  to  trans- 
gress other  laws  no  less  time-honoured, 
nearer  to  ourselves  and  important  in  a 
very  different  manner?  For,  in  short, 
all  things  touch,  all  things  go  hand  to 
hand ;  all  things  obey  the  same  invisi- 
ble principles,  the  identical  exigencies; 
all  things  share  in  the  same  spirit,  in 
the  same  substance,  in  the  terrifying 
and  wonderful  problem ;  and  the  most 
modest  viftory  gained  in  the  matter  of 

C  1Q3  3 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

a  flower  may  one  day  disclose  to  us  an 
infinity  of  the  untold.  .  .  . 


104 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 


BECAUSE  of  these  things  I  love  the 
chrysanthemum;  because  of  these 
things  I  follow  its  evolution  with  a  bro- 
ther's interest.  It  is,  among  familiar 
plants,  the  most  submissive,  the  most 
docile,  the  most  traftable  and  the  most 
attentive  plant  of  all  that  we  meet  on 
life's  long  way.  It  bears  flowers  im- 
pregnated through  and  through  with 
the  thought  and  will  of  man:  flowers 
already  human,  so  to  speak.  And,  if  the 
vegetable  world  is  some  day  to  reveal 
to  us  one  of  the  words  that  we  are 
awaiting,  perhaps  it  will  be  through 
this  flower  of  the  tombs  that  we  shall 
learn  the  first  secret  of  existence,  even 

C 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

as,  in  another  kingdom,  it  is  probably 

through  the  dog,  the  almost  thinking 

guardian  of  our  homes,  that  we 

shall  discover  the  mystery 

of  animal  life. 

THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORNIA 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


00T  27  1933 


mi~2 


•: 


Al 


REC'U  LD 


MAR  1  3  1959 


REC'D  LD 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


ID    04 146 


BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


^26627 


